The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘Like he’s used his face to break toffee.’

‘Fuck …’ He’d clearly found the ball he’d been searching for. ‘Albert Soutar. Is he Kirkcaldy’s uncle?’

I shrugged.

‘Is his nose all busted to fuck?’

‘I don’t think to fuck covers it adequately. He could sniff his ears with it.’

‘That sounds like Soutar all right. And he had family out in Lanarkshire. That’s one bad wee fucker. Or was.’

‘In what way?’

‘In the late Twenties, early Thirties, he went professional, but he was shite. A slugger who stopped too many punches with his head. Did a lot of bare-knuckle too. Then he went inside.’

‘Prison?’

‘Aye. He was in with the Bridgeton Billy Boys. Razor gang. He was supposed to have cut up a copper. He kept his razor in the peak of his bunnet.’ McAskill touched his own flat cap. ‘He was a bad, bad bastard. He abused the privilege of being a cunt, as my old Da would say.’

I smiled, picturing the cozy fireside scene of young son on father’s knee being inducted into the world of abusive epithets.

‘So you think that Uncle Albert is the same guy?’

‘Could be.’ McAskill shook his head slowly. ‘If it is, then he’s so crooked he pisses corkscrews. I’d be surprised if young Kirkcaldy would have anything to do with him.’

I drove out of Dennistoun and had lunch – if you could call it that – at the Horsehead Bar. I ordered a pie and a pint and while I was proving valid the scientific principle that oil and water don’t mix, I spotted Joe Gallagher, a journalist friend, at the other side of the bar. I use the word friend loosely, not just in terms of this guy, but generally for the acquaintances I had made in Glasgow since I first arrived in the city. Drinking buddy would have been a better description in Joe’s case.

The price of information from journos is much cheaper than cops on the take. Usually a pint and a whisky chaser opens the channels of communication, so I made my way round to Joe’s side of the bar and asked him what he was having.

I left half an hour later. My newspaper chum had told me that he had interviewed Kirkcaldy on a couple of occasions. Smart kid, in Joe’s opinion. He had mentioned the battered old minder who seemed always to be at Kirkcaldy’s shoulder.

‘Yeah … calls him his uncle, I believe …’ I had said.

‘Some uncle,’ Joe had muttered. ‘That’s Bert Soutar. Bad sort.’

It was eight-thirty on the dot. I pulled into the long, uphill drive that led through gardens dense with thick, glossy-leaved shrubs and trees and up to Sneddon’s mansion. It was a pleasant evening. The deepening blue of the sky didn’t seem to suit as a backdrop for the Victorian architecture of Sneddon’s place. Gothic and the normal Scottish climate – and the Scottish character – were meant for each other. Even Sneddon’s black Bentley R-type seemed to lurk on the drive; I parked behind it and went up to the house, half-expecting Vincent Price to answer the door and ask me in to see his waxworks. Vincent Price would have been good: my ring of the bell was answered by Singer opening the door and silently standing to one side to let me into the hall.

Sneddon didn’t do his usual trick of keeping me waiting and I was led into his study. The bookshelved walls were heavy with learning and the room had a rich smell of walnut and leather. I somehow didn’t think that Sneddon spent much time in here acquainting himself with literature.

‘You got something for me already?’ Sneddon sat down behind a tree-and-a-half of desk. I’d seen smaller aircraft carriers. He was wearing a well-tailored blue pinstripe three-piece with a handmade white and blue striped silk shirt, and a pale and plum red tie. It could have been the outfit of a Surrey stock-broker, but all it did was emphasize the razor scar and the hard, vicious face behind it.

‘I saw Kirkcaldy yesterday,’ I said.

‘And?’

‘There’s nothing for me to go on. He can’t tell me anything. This is a watch and wait job. You’ve got to catch whoever’s doing this in the act.’

‘So watch and wait.’

‘I can’t be there twenty-four hours a day. And I would have thought that you’d maybe want a couple of your guys to be there to mete out some extemporary retribution when they do show up again.’

‘I hired you because I want you to find out what’s going on. I mean what’s really going on.’ Sneddon’s hard blue-grey eyes were fixed on mine, as if trying to communicate a deeper meaning.

‘I see. So Jonny Cohen’s not the only one who thinks there’s something more to this.’

Sneddon looked over my shoulder and past me, jerking his head in a gesture of dismissal. I turned and saw that Singer had been standing, silently of course, by the door. I had thought he’d left us alone after he’d shown us in, so if he’d been lurking for my benefit, then it had been a wasted effort.

‘I’ve got a lot of fucking money riding on Kirkcaldy,’ Sneddon said after Singer had left, closing the heavy door behind him. ‘More than you can imagine. What did he tell you?’